painting by numbers

I sort the colours,
Stick on the little numbers 
roll out the canva 
and love the feeling of the roughness 
when i touch it 
the paint smells like childhood moments 
not rushing i respect the tiny borders
of each field treating the smallest
as the most special 
almost can’t detect change
Although minutes pass 
small fields, i step back 
realize how far i have come
And think about the last one 
cant remember all the lonely nights i spent on 
But i remember it  was my last art 
i showed to my grandpa 
now covered from coffee cup stains 
and when i question why, i ask myself 
whether its time, whether its pain, 
maybe its bullshit. 
But i just created something out of my loneliness,
Its a mosaique of solitude.
perhaps thats the art of it.
So i just continue.